Sit with me
as long-dead stars
touch us from
their empty graves,
not yet having realised
their own demise.
I will hold you
in near-empty husk,
weightless anchor,
under cold,
black-bruised sky.
Look up at the hollow moon as I
breathe in emptiness
and allow myself, piece by piece,
to escape
into the never-never.
Cry a little.
Your tears will water
the scabbed and broken earth.
A poppy will grow.
But I’ll not see it
through cracked clay eyes.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC